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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371264">dynamic tension</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald'>gothyringwald</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Things, Banter, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Games, Gay Disaster Billy Hargrove, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Resolved Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:35:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28371264</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Billy tries to work out his Steve fuelled sexual frustration by challenging Steve to a game, and one time they do it the old-fashioned way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>dynamic tension</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnofmandanceparty/gifts">dawnofmandanceparty</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Bit belated, but it was an emergency pinch hit! Sorry! </p><p>Also, mean isn’t really my wheelhouse, so it's a little more snarky, but…I tried XD Set in some nebulous post season 2 period</p><p>Oh and mentions of Steve dating some girls</p><p>Set in 1985, Billy is 18</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Thunk thunk thunk. The basketball rebounds off of Steve’s chest, bouncing on the scuffed gym floor a few times, then rolling until it stops by a bench.</p><p class="western">‘What the fuck, Hargrove?’</p><p class="western">A little flicker of satisfaction kindles in Billy’s blood at how fucking annoyed Steve looks, but it’s not enough to burn out how pissed off <em>he</em> is. Billy’s gotten used to thoroughly whipping Steve’s ass in basketball practice, and finding new ways to humiliate him while he’s at it, but today Steve had almost been a match for him.</p><p class="western">Tearing up the court and running his mouth like he was injected with a dose of asshole serum overnight. The other guys had even laughed at Billy once or twice. It’s not right. Billy can’t let Steve Harrington, of all people, show him up.</p><p class="western">‘I want a rematch,’ Billy says.</p><p class="western">Steve slings his backpack over one shoulder. His sigh is loud in the empty gym. ‘A rematch for what?’</p><p class="western">‘The game, today.’ Billy tilts his chin up. ‘You <em>almost</em> beat me.’ He says it as though they were the only two people playing. To Billy, they may as well have been.</p><p class="western">Steve snorts. ‘Seriously?’ At Billy’s curt nod, Steve rolls his eyes and says, ‘You <em>were</em> dropped too much on your head as a kid, weren’t you?’</p><p class="western">Billy stays silent.</p><p class="western">‘I don’t have time for this.’ Steve starts to turn away, but Billy stops him with a hand gripped tight around his bicep. It flexes in the well of Billy’s palm, fitting like it’s made to measure. Shit.</p><p class="western">‘I want,’ Billy says, voice low, fingers tightening around Steve’s arm, ‘a rematch.’</p><p class="western">Steve jerks out of Billy’s grasp. ‘And I want you to fuck off.’ He turns away, but he doesn’t get far.</p><p class="western">‘I mean, if you’re too chicken…’</p><p class="western">Steve’s shoulders tighten and he turns back. He throws his bag to the ground, stalking past Billy to retrieve the ball. He spins it on his finger a few times, then throws it at Billy. Hard. ‘You’re on, Hargrove,’ he says, the weariness from before consumed by something hot and determined.</p><p class="western">It licks at Billy and spurs him on as he starts dribbling the ball.</p><p class="western">They play hard. Billy always does, but Steve usually seems a little distracted. But, now, it’s like it was earlier. He’s on fucking fire, and so is Billy, the two of them tearing up the court.</p><p class="western">Sneakers thud as hard as Billy’s heart. ‘Damn, Harrington,’ he says, when Steve shoves Billy out of the way to make a shot, ‘when did you get semi-decent at this?’</p><p class="western">Steve is slick with sweat, breathless and grinning. ‘You haven’t seen the half of it, yet.’</p><p class="western">Fire rips through Billy, and it’s not just because his blood is pumping from running up and down the court. This is deeper. Lower. The fire he tries to ignore whenever Steve’s around, but at least he can play it off, tonight. He finally finds his voice and says, ‘Then show me.’</p><p class="western">They play for what feels like hours, the sun setting outside the gym’s windows, until Steve takes the final shot, his score creeping just above Billy’s. He pumps both fists in the air and turns.</p><p class="western">‘How’s it feel to be a loser?’ Steve grins, and he’s just goading, the way Billy does with him, but with just the two of them in the gym, the way Billy had forgotten they’re not even friends—and whose fault is that, Billy thinks—it stings.</p><p class="western">‘I wouldn’t know,’ Billy grits out.</p><p class="western">Steve’s brows shoot up. ‘Well, you just lost so…’ He shrugs and spreads his hands.</p><p class="western">‘Let’s go again.’ Billy swipes the ball, dribbling it and circling Steve.</p><p class="western">‘I’ll pass.’ Steve goes to move toward his backpack, but Billy cages him in.</p><p class="western">Steve steps to one side, then the other. Finally, he just shoulder-checks Billy out of the way, saying, ‘Look, man, this was…fun, or whatever. But I’ve got better things to do than play ball with <em>you</em> all night.’ His lip curls a little as he speaks.</p><p class="western">‘Like what?’</p><p class="western">‘Like a date. With Kimberly.’</p><p class="western">Billy’s hands tighten on the ball. ‘Tomorrow, then.’</p><p class="western">Steve scrubs a hand over his face. ‘Whatever,’ he says, and picks up his backpack, walking off.</p><p class="western">‘Hey, tell Kimberly I said hi. We’re <em>really</em> good friends if you know what I mean.’</p><p class="western">Steve flips him the bird, then disappears into the dark beyond the gym’s opened door.</p><p class="western">Billy slams the basketball into the floor and stalks off to the showers.</p><p class="western">—</p><p class="western">Three days later, Billy corners Steve in the men’s room at Lou’s Cafe. He’s between Steve and the exit, unmoving, arms crossed.</p><p class="western">Steve’s brows raise. ‘There a problem?’</p><p class="western">‘You owe me a game.’</p><p class="western">‘What?’</p><p class="western">Billy steps forward, backing Steve up against a sink. ‘We had a game of one on one. You didn’t show.’ He tries to keep the hurt out of his voice. It’s not like he cared, or like he has this ache in his gut and itch under his skin, leading him toward Steve all the time. It’s just that Billy Hargrove doesn’t get stood up.</p><p class="western">‘I—’ Steve blinks a couple of times, then his expression morphs into something like amusement. ‘You were serious about that?’</p><p class="western">Billy squares his jaw. ‘Am I laughing?’</p><p class="western">Steve snorts and tries to step around Billy. ‘Jeez, dude, what’s your problem? We played one game. I beat you. Get over it.’</p><p class="western">Billy plants a hand to Steve’s chest. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’</p><p class="western">Steve swallows. ‘Yeah?’</p><p class="western">Billy nods, fingers curling into Steve’s shirt.</p><p class="western">Something like fear flickers across Steve’s features, but it’s gone sooner than Billy can process it properly. Steve presses his lips together. ‘You wouldn’t.’ He lowers his voice, steps in closer. ‘Or Max might make good and neuter you next time.’</p><p class="western">Billy shifts his wait; his stomach turns, but he ignores it. ‘You still owe me a game.’</p><p class="western">Steve snorts. ‘This is a little pathetic, man. Don’t you have any people who don’t hate you to hang around with? Or did Tommy and Carol dump you?’</p><p class="western">‘Shut up, Harrington.’</p><p class="western">‘Oh, that hurts.’ Steve dodges to the side but Billy blocks him. He sighs and says, ‘Look, I’m flattered, but I’m already on a date, right now.’ He looks Billy up and down. ‘And, uh, no offence, but you’re not exactly my type.’</p><p class="western">Billy knows Steve’s on a date. He’d seen him with Claire out there, squeezed tight together into one of the booths. ‘You’re not my type, either, sweetheart.’ Fucking liar. Billy licks his lips. ‘But I don’t like it when people owe me things.’</p><p class="western">Steve throws his hands up. ‘Jesus Christ, dude.’ He opens his mouth, pauses a moment, then digs into his pockets. ‘Hey, you got any quarters?’</p><p class="western">‘What?’</p><p class="western">‘C’mon.’ Steve manages to push past Billy and Billy can’t do anything but follow. They weave through the tables to the back of the diner—Steve’s date calls out to him, but he just says he’ll be right back—where Steve stops by an ancient pinball machine. ‘You want a game, here you go.’</p><p class="western">‘Pinball?’</p><p class="western">‘Take it or leave it.’</p><p class="western">‘Whatever,’ Billy says, and slots a quarter into the machine.</p><p class="western">Coloured lights flash, cascading over Steve’s face where he leans on the side of the machine. Billy tries to ignore how they light up his eyes, playing over the contours of his face, and focus on the game in front of him. He hits the button, sending the ball flying, watching it ping around the play field. He’s careful not to trigger the tilt sensors as he manipulates the machine.</p><p class="western">They take turns—Steve is good, but Billy’s better. ‘Oh, I’m kicking your ass, Harrington,’ he says, nodding at his score.</p><p class="western">Steve snorts, eyes rolling. ‘Congratulations,’ he deadpans, ‘you’re the pinball wizard.’</p><p class="western">Billy’s about to say something else when Claire comes over, crossing her arms and glaring daggers at Steve.</p><p class="western">‘Your food’s cold,’ she says, all ice.</p><p class="western">‘Shit,’ Steve says. He runs a hand over his face. ‘I guess I got carried away.’ He glances at Billy. ‘We can finish this some other time.’</p><p class="western">A pang shoots through Billy but he squares his jaw and says, ‘Think we’re finished, already.’</p><p class="western">Steve only shrugs and slides an arm around Claire’s waist. ‘Whatever, Hargrove,’ he says and turns to walk away.</p><p class="western">And Billy should let him. This is stupid. But he finds himself calling out, voice rising above the chatter and the song on the jukebox: ‘Harrington!’</p><p class="western">Steve pauses, turns around slowly. ‘What?’</p><p class="western">‘I can beat you at anything. Anytime. Anywhere.’</p><p class="western">‘Sure.’</p><p class="western">‘Seriously, name your game.’</p><p class="western">Steve’s brow furrows. He glances at Claire by his side, who looks majorly pissed off, then back at Billy. He’s giving Billy this look like he thinks Billy’s lost his mind. Maybe Billy has. But, eventually, Steve says, ‘How’d you feel about foosball?’</p><p class="western">—</p><p class="western">The row of plastic men spins and the ball goes into the goal. It’s a clean shot. Billy whoops and punches the air. ‘Told you I could beat you at anything,’ he crows, satisfaction welling behind his ribs. He looks back over at Steve in time to note the way Steve drags his gaze away from where Billy’s shirt had ridden up. Billy licks his lips, the heat of victory supplanted by a different kind of warmth entirely.</p><p class="western">It’s been like this a lot, lately. They’ve been playing foosball in Steve’s basement nearly every day after school for the past two weeks, circling closer and closer to something more than the competition between them. But not close enough for Billy.</p><p class="western">The first few times, Steve had invited over whatever girl he was dating—Kimberly or Claire or someone—but whoever it was had spent the whole time pointedly yawning, or draping herself over Steve, until she’d got bored and dumped Steve.</p><p class="western">Billy had given Steve shit for it, but Steve didn’t seem to miss her much. The past week it’s just been the two of them, cloistered in the basement, playing round after round until Steve gets fed up and kicks Billy out. Same thing every night.</p><p class="western">‘Let’s play again,’ Billy says, leaning on the table.</p><p class="western">The softly swinging light overhead paints Steve in dancing shadows, making his lashes seem longer and his lips pinker. ‘You won the past three games,’ he says, ‘isn’t that enough?’ He rolls his shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’m tired.’</p><p class="western">Cold washes through Billy. There it is, the brush off. <em>Time to get lost, Billy.</em> They’re not friends. They’re certainly not more than that. ‘You need to work on your stamina,’ Billy says, then turns to grab his jacket. He’s not going to make an idiot of himself and stick around when he’s not wanted.</p><p class="western">But Steve only frowns at the jacket in Billy’s hand and says, ‘I was going to grab us some beers.’ It’s not a question but it comes out like one. It steels Billy. He loves seeing Steve off-kilter. Uncertain. It only lasts a moment before Steve’s saying, ‘I mean, figured I owe you one after letting you win,’ all cocky grin and sly wink.</p><p class="western">‘Just grab the fucking beer, Harrington,’ Billy says.</p><p class="western">Steve shakes his head, then crosses the basement to the fridge in the corner. His shirt rides up as he stoops to get the beers out, showing off the dimples at the small of his back.</p><p class="western">Billy wants to go over there, drop to his knees, and press his mouth to them. Fuck. He’s so pathetic.</p><p class="western">‘You know,’ Steve says, walking back and throwing Billy a beer, ‘I’m getting pretty tired of foosball.’ He pops the ring on his beer, taking a long pull, throat bobbing.</p><p class="western">Shit. Maybe this is the final brush-off. Get lost for good. No more foosball, no more not-quite-friendly games. They’re the only thing that keeps Billy’s blood from overheating, keeps him from doing something monumentally stupid like offer to suck Steve’s dick. ‘Sure you’re not just getting sick of me whipping your ass every night?’</p><p class="western">Steve ignores him and leans in. His eyes glimmer in the low light. ‘Maybe we could try something different next time?’</p><p class="western">Billy’s mouth goes hot and dry, but he manages to say, ‘What? Like you winning for a change?’ and doesn’t sound too weird.</p><p class="western">Steve just winks again and chugs his beer.</p><p class="western">—</p><p class="western">Low grunts fill the air, punctuated by soft slaps. Sweat slicks Billy’s back, running down the length of his spine. His breath comes in short bursts and his thighs are starting to shake. He looks up at Steve, heat pooling in his gut at the pretty flush colouring his face. It’s probably bringing out the moles that dot his skin but Billy’s vision is obscured by his hair flopping into his face.</p><p class="western">‘Riding me hard today, pretty boy,’ Billy says, licking his lips.</p><p class="western">‘Just shut up and serve.’</p><p class="western">Billy grins, then sends the small plastic ball in his hand sailing across the net with one hard whack of his paddle.</p><p class="western">Steve sends it right back.</p><p class="western">They go back and forth, panting and grunting, and it’s not exactly what Billy had hoped Steve had in mind when he said they could try something different, but the exertion is almost enough for him to ignore the arousal that engulfs him whenever he’s near Steve.</p><p class="western">It’s countered by how damn <em>hot</em> Steve looks. Hair matted to his forehead, shirt sticking to his skin. Fucking gorgeous.</p><p class="western">Even the shit-eating grin he sends Billy when he wins the first game doesn’t piss Billy off the way it should.</p><p class="western">‘Best two out of three,’ Billy says.</p><p class="western">Steve wins the second game, too.</p><p class="western">‘Best three out of five.’</p><p class="western">Steve rolls his eyes and serves. When he wins the third game, he sets down his paddle and says, ‘Admit defeat, Hargrove,’ before Billy can suggest best five out of seven.</p><p class="western">Steve is flushed with victory, all lax and pleased with himself.</p><p class="western">‘This is stupid,’ Billy says. He throws his paddle at Steve—it goes wide, and Billy pretends it’s just that he’s off his game, and not that he didn’t actually want to hit Steve—and grabs his jacket.</p><p class="western">As Billy’s stalking toward the basement stairs, Steve says, ‘Jesus Christ, Hargrove, don’t be such a sore loser.’</p><p class="western">Billy wheels around. In three strides he’s standing toe to toe with Steve, fisting his hands in Steve’s shirt. He pushes him back into the wall, but it’s not hard enough that it would be more than a firm pressure at Steve’s back. ‘I am not a loser.’</p><p class="western">‘Well, you didn’t win.’ Steve curls his hands around Billy’s wrists and tugs. He huffs, but manages to wriggle out of Billy’s hold, shoving Billy so hard he stumbles back, nearly falling flat on his ass.</p><p class="western">‘You should plant your feet,’ Steve says. He stares Billy down, like beating him at table tennis has made him tough, or something.</p><p class="western">Billy moves in again, but he doesn’t push Steve or punch him. He kisses him. Hard and unforgiving.</p><p class="western">Steve shoves at him again, but not as hard. He wipes over his mouth with the back of his hand and his face is unreadable. ‘Didn’t take you for a queer.’</p><p class="western">It shouldn’t hurt, that word coming out of Steve’s mouth, because Billy’s said so much worse. But it catches on something tender Billy keeps buried deep inside. He tilts his chin up and says, ‘What’re you gonna do about it?’</p><p class="western">Steve doesn’t answer. He just grabs Billy’s wrist and pulls him into another kiss.</p><p class="western">—</p><p class="western">The couch is rough beneath Billy’s back, scratching over his skin where his shirt is rucked up. Where Steve has pushed his shirt up, so he can get his hand on Billy’s stomach, his chest. His thumb brushes Billy’s nipple and his lips brush Billy’s ear.</p><p class="western">His weight pushes Billy down, down, down into the couch, and he’s sucking bruising kisses into Billy’s neck. Billy should stop him from making marks but, fuck, he doesn’t care right now. He can’t think about later. Can only think about how Steve feels above him, how his thigh is hot between Billy’s, and his hand is firm as it holds Billy’s down.</p><p class="western">Their fingers curl together, Steve’s thumb pressing into the well of Billy’s palm.</p><p class="western">‘This is better than table tennis,’ Steve says, and it sends an inexplicable pang through Billy. It’s a reminder that this is probably another game for Steve. Another competition. But whatever, Billy will take what he can get.</p><p class="western">So, he slides his free hand down Steve’s back, curves it over the swell of his ass, and pulls Steve’s hips flush against his.</p><p class="western">Steve’s dick is hot, pushing against Billy’s hip. Billy shifts until their dicks are lined up, and rolls his hips. It sends a white-hot bolt of pleasure down his spine and it must do something to Steve, too, because he moans against Billy’s neck.</p><p class="western">He kisses his way back to Billy’s mouth, slips his tongue past Billy’s lips, and curls a hand around Billy’s hip. He yanks, pulling Billy up as he presses his thigh forward, urging Billy’s legs apart.</p><p class="western">Liquid heat pools in Billy’s groin; he kisses Steve once more then pushes his hands between them, scrabbling for Steve’s belt and his fly. Reaching for his cock. It’s hot and heavy in his hand.</p><p class="western">It spurs Steve on, too, and he’s soon pushing Billy’s jeans open, getting his own hand on Billy’s dick, curled just this side of too tight. They jerk each other off, wrists bumping awkwardly in the space between them, until Steve bats Billy’s hand away.</p><p class="western">‘What—’</p><p class="western">‘Let me,’ Steve says, grabbing Billy’s wrists and pressing them down into the couch above Billy’s head. Billy lets him. Steve gets one hand back on Billy’s cock, curls the other around Billy’s jaw. ‘Look at me,’ he says and Billy does.</p><p class="western">He jerks Billy off in quick strokes, thumbing the head of his dick, mouthing at his neck and jaw. It’s not long before that heat lightning feeling rushes through Billy and his hips stutter and he’s spilling over Steve’s hand.</p><p class="western">‘Fuck,’ Steve says, and then he’s jerking himself off, kneeling between the spread of Billy’s thighs. He makes this low cut-off moan and his hips jerk up and he’s coming over Billy’s stomach. It’s so fucking hot.</p><p class="western">Steve’s elbow buckles, and for a moment he’s pressed along Billy, their come a mess between them. But then he says, ‘I win again,’ licking at Billy’s lips and pushes himself up. He shoves at Billy’s legs so he’s got room to slump on one seat of the couch. His fly is still undone and his hair is all messed up and there’s a smear of come on his stomach.</p><p class="western">‘Oh, yeah?’ Billy manoeuvres himself until he’s sitting beside Steve. He’s still trembling all over and he wishes he had a cigarette or something to do with his hands. ‘What makes you think that?’</p><p class="western">Steve looks at Billy, all hot eyes and shining mouth. ‘Well, I made you come first.’ He winks. ‘Pretty sure that makes me the winner.’</p><p class="western">Billy swallows thickly. It <em>was</em> just a game. ‘Sex a competition to you, huh?’ And it’s too revealing to say that. Because Billy is the one who makes a competition out of everything and Steve is going to see right through him and—</p><p class="western">‘Nah, but that’s our thing.’ Steve sends Billy a sidelong glance. ‘Right?’</p><p class="western">And maybe it’s not exactly what Billy wanted to hear, but what he wants to hear is something he shouldn’t want, anyway. And Steve has this small smile on his lips and he said <em>our thing</em> and that can be enough. So, Billy says, ‘Whatever,’ letting his knee rest against Steve’s, ‘I’m gonna win next time.’</p><p class="western"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>Title is a reference to Charles Atlas’s exercises for no reason other than I think the words sound neat together haha</p></blockquote></div></div>
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